


I Feel So Close to You Right Now

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Derek is a waiter/owner here yeah, M/M, what did i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s late at night when Stiles spots the diner off of the side of the road, makes an illegal u-turn to actually <i>get</i> there, and does a horrible parking job right outside the front window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel So Close to You Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> I figured that I've never really written an AU for this fandom where there's no werewolves involved, so I decided to give it a try! Oh, and Derek's family never died in this universe, which is why he's a little bit more upbeat and happy, but still kind of awkward? Yeah. 
> 
> Title is taken from the song of the same name by Calvin Harris.
> 
> Looked over by Amanda, but all mistakes are still my own!

It’s late at night when Stiles spots the diner off of the side of the road, makes an illegal u-turn to actually  _ get _ there, and does a horrible parking job right outside the front window.  
  
It’s pitch-black outside, and Stiles is pretty sure he failed his Mythology 101 test earlier, even though he researched and studied for hours–well, more like he studied for twenty minutes, and researched the birthing and mating cycles of seahorses, because even if he’s never going to study marine biology, it seemed like something he ought to know, anyway–and he’s straddling the line between ‘so worried he’s calm’ and ‘so calm he’s worried.' He’s used to it, though, because that’s college for you.  
  
He doesn’t think he’s ever went into a test completely confident that he’s going to pass. He’s not sure if that’s just Stiles talking, or if it’s his ADHD–which is even  _ more _ killer than it was in high school–talking.  
  
The diner is quaint and nestled in between a thicket of brush and trees on both sides, and looks suspiciously like a scene from a horror movie. Later, he’ll maintain that he was too hungry to notice, but now it’s what pushes him forward, makes him step into the diner, because, hey, he’s always been curious and the one way to his heart is through dangerous situations.  
  
There’s no customers, but it’s decorated like it’s from the fifties, with records lining the walls and an old style jukebox in far corner, blasting some Robert Johnson–which Stiles only knows because of those murderous two weeks when he marathoned Supernatural. There’s a dark-haired man behind the counter with intimidating arms and an even more intimidating face (though the glasses kind of contradict that) but he quirks his mouth a little at Stiles’ entrance, like he doesn’t want to smile but kind of has to anyway.  
  
“Are you guys open?” Stiles asks, because it would make sense that they’re probably close to closed, which is why this guy is staring at Stiles like he’s about to murder him in a sickly delicious way. He doesn’t look like the cannibalistic type, but if there’s one thing Stiles has learned about the Beacon Hills nightlife it’s that nothing is what it seems.  
  
He points to the sign on the door, annoyed and sort of amused, too, if the glint in his eyes is anything to go by, and says, “we’re open until twelve.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles says, intelligently, because it’s only ten and there’s no one here, and he’s hungry so he’s going to get himself some damn food. The guy eventually slides a menu over with a cup of steaming hot coffee, which Stiles’ drinks gratefully. “That obvious, huh?”  
  
“It’s finals week at the local college,” The guy says, like it should be completely obvious information.  
  
“You go there?”  
  
“No,” The guy snorts, and yeah, now that Stiles looks a little closer, the guy does look a little too old to actually be enrolled there–not that he  _couldn_ ’t , but he’s got that ‘post-college life’ look to him, like he’s been there and done that. “You’re the fifth I’ve had this week.”  
  
Stiles just nods, because the coffee still hasn’t really kicked in yet, even if it’s pretty damn good, and just looks through the menu.  
  
“What’s your name?” Stiles asks eventually, and at the man’s quirked eyebrow, says, “it’s just that it’s kind of exhausting calling you ‘that man’ or ‘that guy who works here–or maybe owns the place– _ Christ _ stop glaring at me, man, that’s horrible for business’ in my mind, and aren’t you supposed to be personable or something? ‘Cause you’re completely failing at that now, man–”   
  
The guy snorts, though, and stops looking like he wants Stiles’ head on a silver platter, so that’s a plus. “Derek,” he grunts, as he slaps down a tray in front of Stiles and goes toward the back, probably to turn on the oven.  
  
“Cool,” Stiles says, “I’m Stiles.” He doesn’t know why he says it, because it’s not like you typically give out your name to waiters or owners of diners tucked in the middle of the woods–especially not in the middle of the woods–but this isn’t exactly a normal situation, either. Stiles isn’t even sure what the  _ definition _ of normal here even  _ is _ , because he’s never quite met someone like Derek who has been in the restaurant business and has actually been successful.  
  
Derek doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even  _ acknowledge _ him, but the edges of his lips are turned up as he ducks his head under the stove to reach some pans, or maybe he’s just doing that to  hide his smile. Derek does seem like one of those burly waiter types that feel like it’s incredibly emasculating to have someone see that they don’t actually eat raw meat for enjoyment.  
  
“D’you always treat customers like this?” Stiles asks, more curious than accusatory.   
  
“I do actually want to make money,” answers Derek, and Stiles is struck by how much he can answer a question without really answering it at all.  
  
“That was enlightening,” Stiles mutters, mostly to himself, and then browses some more.  
  


 

“What’s the best thing you’ve got?” Stiles asks, sometime later, because the menu, while short, is utterly overwhelming and usually Stiles ends up ordering the wrong thing.  _ But _ he doesn’t think his stomach can take another night of ‘Shrimp & Lobster Special’ type happenings–he spent the better half of the night throwing up and heaving when there was nothing left, which was seriously not fun at all.

  
Derek shrugs. “Our burgers are pretty good,” he says, but he sounds like he’s lying.  
  
Stiles hums. “I’ll have some biscuits and gravy with chicken on the side, then–” Stiles cuts himself off. “You can serve breakfast this late, right?”  
  
Derek shrugs. “Not usually, no.”  
  
“But what about now?”   
  
Derek shrugs, but he goes to the back again, anyway.  
  
*  
  
Stiles’ life since going to college has been less than consistent, which is saying something, because it’s not like it was actually consistent before.   
  
Growing up with a single father who juggled being one of the town’s only three sheriffs, a mom that died too young, and an asthmatic, always perpetually angry best friend didn’t exactly set him up for an easy life. Not that his life was really all that hard, because it never really was. But it certainly wasn’t easy, either.   
  
Stiles had left that all behind, though, even if he was still in the same town and still hung out with the same people, and still went to the same college that his family went to–basically he still lives the same fucking life, but he’s handling it differently, now, he’s not going to let it get to him anymore. Sometimes life sucks and people suck and Stiles can’t exactly  _ change _ that; even if he didn’t understand it when he was sixteen, he understands it now. So yeah, his best friend is still shitty, but awesome, and his father still slaves for a town that will never fully recognize him, and his mother isn’t there, will never  _ be _ physically there, but Stiles is fine.  
  
He’s not focusing on this,  _ never _ focuses on this, because then he just gets depressed and self-pitying, which is something he never wants to be.  
  
Stiles has never seen Derek before, and Beacon Hills is a small enough town where they don’t get too many new folk very often, but is big enough to hide secrets–plenty of them, apparently. Come to think of it, Stiles has never really seen this diner before, either, even if it looks like it’s been sitting here for years, with cobwebs hanging off of the windows in the corner and the old floorboards that are at least three decades outdated.   
  
It’s nice, though, it’s understated in that way that Stiles could never fully bring himself to appreciate, but likes all the same. It’s different than the usual modernized buildings that adorn the streets here, and it’s kind of easy to see why Derek loves it so much–he so obviously does, too, because the place is kept neat and organized, cared for in the way that most places aren’t anymore.  
  
Derek comes back with a flimsy, greasy apron tied around his waist, glasses perched low on his nose (Stiles has the ridiculous urge to push them up) and slaps down his food, which is delicious and greasy and probably heart-attack inducing, but Stiles is young so he can afford to eat like this.  
  
Or at least that’s what he tells himself.  
  
“Holy shit–” Stiles literally  _ sniffs _ the food, because it’s there, and he’s paying for it, so Derek can go shove it if he thinks Stiles is weird for doing so. “This smells  _ amazing _ .”  
  
Derek snorts, and then shrugs, untying the apron and throwing it in the general direction of what Stiles assumes is a coat hanger, or something. Derek doesn’t seem like the type of person that would throw an apron randomly. But then again, he didn’t seem like the kind of person that would be willing to bend the menu for a customer, either.   
  
“So–” Stiles starts.  
  
“You’re one of  _ them _ , aren’t you?”  
  
Stiles cocks his head. “ _ What _ ?”  
  
“One of those people that feel the constant need to talk,” Derek clarifies.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “I’ve been told,” he pauses to take a bite, and has to suppress a moan that’s orgasm level intense, because  really . It’s awesome.  
  
Derek pulls out a tray with more food on it, and Stiles’ eyes literally bulge out of his head because  _ he can’t possibly eat all that _ _._ Derek starts mauling it, and yeah, okay, that kind of makes sense.  
  
“It’ll still be there in ten minutes, dude. No need to rush.”  
  
Derek glares at him. “Shut up,” he says, but it sounds more like “sh’up,” because of all the damn food in his mouth.  
  
“You’re disgusting.”  
  
Derek growls, or rumbles at him, or something. Honestly, it sounds like a pitiful puppy that’s not scary at all, but Stiles supposes he gets an A+ for effort. “I spit in your food,” he retaliates.   
  
Stiles isn’t fazed. “I’m sure you did, buddy.”  
  
*  
  
There’s something comfortable about sitting down with some guy he just met, sharing a meal, and not really having anything to say, but saying it anyway.  
  
Stiles has never been the kind of person to do something like this. Sure, he’s spontaneous and loves adventure but he also loves when things have a pattern and order–he kind of needs it, with how jumbled up his mind and emotions are. He absolutely hates lack of control, hates it when he can’t do anything but sit back and watch a show he doesn’t even want to  see , so he thinks that’s probably why he chose to go to a college here in Beacon Hills, because no one expected an intelligent, hard-to-keep-focused guy like him would choose to stay home.  
  
Stiles does a lot of things out of spite, or he used to. He’d like to think he’s outgrown that now, but he’s still only nineteen, and hey, he’s not perfect–he’s seriously close, though.  
  
Derek eventually leaves him, and comes back to bring him more coffee, which Stiles shouldn’t drink, but does anyway.  
  
“I’m going to be up all night now,” Stiles says.  
  
Derek shrugs. “You’re the one that keeps drinking it.”  
  
“ _ You’re _ the one that keeps giving it to me.”  
  
“Not my problem,” Derek grunts, but there’s no bite.  
  
“So–” Stiles starts again, because Derek totally cut him off before, and while that was pretty rude, it distracted him. It’s probably what Derek wanted anyway. Now it’s Stiles’ turn. “Haven’t seen you ‘round much.”  
  
“I left town a while back.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Derek pushes his glasses up his nose, and turns away, gathering their dirty dishes and throwing them–quite forcefully, which is not even  _ necessary _ –into the sink and says, “School.”  
  
“And now you’re back.”  
  
“And now I’m back,” Derek confirms.   
  
“Alone?”  
  
“No,” Derek says, a genuine smile on his face that actually makes Stiles feel all types of warm inside. Derek just has one of those smiles, those smiles that are contagious and deadly and end up making you smile, too. “My family’s here.”  
  
*  
  
Stiles, pathetically, doesn’t want to leave.  
  
He doesn’t want to leave Derek–which is something he’s not thinking about, thanks–or the diner, or how quiet and tucked away everything is here. He doesn’t want to get back to the totally different type of quiet at his house that means his dad  _ still _ isn’t home from working a double shift, that means that Stiles has to fall asleep without knowing that his dad’s  _ safe _ . He worries constantly about his dad even though he knows that he shouldn’t, knows that his father is the one with the gun and the means to protect himself, but Stiles can’t quite help himself.  
  
His dad has been different since Stiles’ mom passed away five years ago to stomach cancer, and even though it seems like it gets easier every day for him, there’s this constant underlying thrum of panic that Stiles’ feels whenever he can’t see his father for any extended amount of time. There’s this ridiculous part of him of him that can’t believe his father’s safe until Stiles announces so himself.  
  
Stiles might just be a little overprotective.  
  
It’s something he’s working on.  
  
It’s nearly eleven now, which means that it’s an hour till closing, so Stiles orders more coffee–no matter how harsh it’ll be on his wallet–so he doesn’t have to leave.  
  
“Why do you serve coffee this late?”  
  
“I usually don’t,” he says, “but something told me that you needed it.”  
  
Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat. “M’not sure whether I want to kill you or thank you for that.”  
  
Derek’s mouth quirks again, in that not-quite-there-smile that Stiles has already grown used to in the last hour. “I don’t know what you’re avoiding, but it sure must be something.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t know if it’s more sad or pathetic that the only thing he’s avoiding is being alone.  
  
*  
  
  
“If you’re going to stay here then the least you can do is wipe down the tables,” Derek says, throwing a rag in his face.  
  
Stiles wipes down the tables.  
  
*  
  
“As much as I enjoy you creeping around my diner, m’afraid I have to close up shop now,”  
  
Stiles looks up from where he’s wiping down the last table, and physically has to force himself from begging to be allowed to stay. It’s twelve, which means that his dad will be home soon, either to pick up some food only to go back to work, or maybe this will be one of those rare nights when he takes it easy and actually  _ stays _ . Stiles highly doubts it, because his dad isn’t one to take it easy, never has been really, but it’s one of the only things that makes him throw the wash rag back in Derek’s face with a smirk.  
  
“You got it, Captain,” he says, and reaches for his keys that he left sitting on the counter.   
  
He’s about to leave the diner when Derek’s voice stops him, “You’re welcome here anytime, Stiles,” and he sounds stilted and embarrassed.  
  
Stiles snorts. “Why thank you, Sherlock. I hadn’t realized that this wasn’t a private property and all–”  
  
Derek glares in the general direction of his face. “Forget it. I take it back. I’m locking all the doors and windows and putting out a restraining order.”  
  
Stiles laughs all the way to his car.  
  
*  
  
Stiles ends up going back three days later.  
  
It’s still 10 o’clock, because there’s a selfish part of him that can’t stand the idea of sharing the diner and Derek with other people. He knows that there won’t be much traffic, other than the random straggler here and there, so Stiles settles into his usual barstool seat–which has somehow become usual even though it’s only his second time here–and throws Derek a small smile.  
  
“Hey,” Stiles says.  
  
Derek raises his eyebrows. “I thought I told you that you weren’t allowed back here.”  
  
Stiles scoffs. “Like you could last another day without me,” Stiles says, “I’m sure you looked up my picture on the internet and started crying over it because you missed me so much.”  
  
“ _ You’re _ the one who decided to make my diner his new little hideout,” argues Derek, but it’s playful and easy, something oddly intimate.   
  
Stiles, of course, had not been thinking about that until Derek _mentioned_ it.

 

"What can I say?" Stiles asks, "I love me some good food." And he does, so it's not exactly a lie.  


 

“Are you going to order?” Derek asks eventually, after Stiles spends about ten minutes staring at Derek’s face–it’s not like he didn’t notice it before, because it’s kind of painfully obvious just how attractive Derek really  is , but his mind was focused on other things and he was just looking for a place, for a  _ friend _ –because it’s ridiculously pretty, and Stiles likes ridiculously pretty things. Like Lydia Martin, who broke his heart sophomore year, repaired it Junior year, and is now one of his best friends. It’s funny how life works sometimes, especially Stiles’.  
  
“I wasn’t aware that I had to,” Stiles says, though he’s totally going to order.   
  
Derek grunts and points to a sign above the old jukebox in the corner that says, in bright red, bolded, and underlined  _ three _ times, “No Soliciting”–yeah, okay, Stiles probably should’ve noticed that before.  
  
“Like those rules apply to me.”  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Your usual, then?”  
  
Stiles doesn’t think about how Derek somehow already knows what he wants and he definitely doesn’t think about how what he wants is suddenly his usual, and instead says, “no coffee this time, though. I didn’t fall asleep until 36 hours _after_ I drank those coffees. So yeah, totally not fun, dude. I think I’ll just go with a coke–”  
  
“Not diet?”   
  
Stiles glares. “Like I need to lose weight.”  
  
Derek turns away, but Stiles is almost 95.4% sure that Derek had a smirk on his face.  
  
That bastard.  
  
*  
  
It sort of becomes their thing.  
  
Stiles will come in every couple of days until it suddenly becomes everyday, and it’ll always be at the same time, ten o’clock, right on the spot. They’ll talk about Stiles’ schooling, and Derek’s  old schooling, about Stiles’ dad and how worried Stiles gets over him–get a couple of caffeinated drinks in Stiles and he’ll basically tell you anything,  _ literally _ . Sometimes Derek will talk about his family, how his mom visits the diner sometimes to check up on him and how his dad will come in just to buy the cookies Derek bakes on his downtime. He talks about his sisters and his brother that’s off at college majoring in psychology. Derek usually doesn’t say much, but Stiles is always glad when he does.  
  
Tonight, though, Stiles is having a shitty night.  
  
One of his professors just whammied him with a huge fifteen page paper that’s due next class. It’s not like he minds doing the work, but it’s not like he doesn’t have  _ other _ assignments either, and Beacon Hills’ only cemetery is closed for maintenance, or something equally as stupid so the flowers that Stiles bought his mom–that he buys her every week–are sitting in the back of his jeep rotting.   
  
So, he might be more than a little deserving of the perplexed look that Derek has on his face. Stiles had just walked in and plopped down in one of the booths, throwing his head into his arms and making this stupidly girly noise in the back of his throat that totally  _wasn’t_ an exasperated, ‘I-win-at-nothing’ whine.  
  
“Stiles?” Derek asks, and then pokes him in the arm. “You alright?  
  
“I’m just freakin’ peachy,” Stiles mutters.  
  
Stiles doesn’t have to look at Derek to know that he’s raising an eyebrow. "Wow, Stiles, tell us how you really feel."

 

He grunts, but doesn't answer, doesn't have the energy to, really.

 

“What’s got your boxers in a twist?”  
  
Stiles sighs, lifts up his head, and looks Derek straight in the eye. “Life,” he says, dejectedly.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I know it’s stupid, right? Which is the real kicker, because it’s not like I’m not used to having these huge assignments that are due in a seriously impossible amount of time, because that’s just college, man and I’ve kind of accepted that. But like, I have to write a fifteen page paper, and then I have a shitload of other assignments to do, and the cemetery was closed today for fucking maintenance, or something. Or maybe there’s a zombie apocalypse on the rise–I wasn’t really reading, or listening, not that I ever really  do listen or read those. So, anyway, I couldn’t bring my mother flowers so now they’re rotting in my backseat and probably being all things disgusting–”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe.”  
  
Stiles takes in a breath. “Breathing.”  
  
Instead of being a dick like Derek normally is, he just sits there and listens to Stiles rant and breathe and just generally be a wallowing teenager.  
  
Even though he still has a shitty paper to write, and his Jeep will probably smell like roses and tulips for the next few days, Stiles feels better, better than he has all day, and when Derek comes by with a bucket full of sudsy water and dumps half of it on Stiles’ head, he can’t even find it in him to be mad about it.   
  
(That’s probably because Stiles dumps the other half on Derek, but hey, who’s really keeping score?)  
  
*  
  
When Stiles goes back to the cemetery a day later, there’s fresh flowers lying by her tombstone.  
  
He doesn’t know why, doesn’t even know  _ how _ , but he knows that it was Derek.  
  
Stiles is caught between crying and laughing so he settles for a little of both.  
  
It feels pretty damn amazing.  
  
*  
  
Stiles walks in one night to Derek throwing an apron at his face.  
  
“What’s this?” Stiles asks. “Is there someone here from the food network channel?  A _re we going to be on Cupcake Wars_ ?”   
  
Derek blinks. “You’re a fucking moron,” he hisses. “And I make  _ cookies _ . Not cupcakes.”  
  
Stiles shrugs. “It’s still a valid question, and I’m still pretty sure you didn’t answer. You better tell me Derek, because I’m five seconds away from defiling the premises by looking for cameramen.”  
  
Derek sighs, indignant, and almost looks like he’s about to snatch the apron from Stiles like he’s just made a huge mistake. “I gave you an apron,” Derek says, with  _ meaning _ .  
  
Stiles doesn’t get it. “Yeah, I got  _ that _ part. I just don’t know  _ why _ .”  
  
“You practically already work here, Stiles,” explains Derek, “so you might as well get paid for it.”  
  
“But  _ why _ ?”  
  
Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Would you just rather wipe down my tables for free? Because I don’t  _ mind _ not paying you, but I think you might.”  
  
Stiles flails. “Wait, are you seriously offering me a job here?”  
  
“I’m starting to think it’s a bad idea–” Derek mutters, mostly to himself, and then says, louder, “yes.”  
  
Stiles would like to say that he’s completely surprised by this, but he’s not. They’ve both known it’s been coming for a while, because Stiles has been here everyday for nearly two weeks and hasn’t complained once about cleaning the tables and sweeping the floors, and even though Derek hasn’t let him around food yet (“No,” Derek says, “you will probably burn it and believe it or not, authentic, organic food is expensive. You’re a liability, and I’m not ready to trust your non-existent abilities yet.” And yeah,  _ harsh _ ) it’s like he’s been working for Derek anyway.

  
“Okay,” Stiles says, “Okay. I accept, then.”  
  
Derek smiles. “I know.”  
  
*  
  
Two weeks after Stiles starts officially working for Derek, Derek kisses him outside by the garbage bins.  
  
It’s not in the least bit romantic, or even remotely attractive, but it’s Derek’s warm, slightly chapped lips pressing against Stiles’ own, so he doesn't mind. And it’s Derek’s wide and strong arms wrapping around his waist, pushing their bodies together, holding him close. It’s chaste and deep all at once, with Derek’s teeth biting into Stiles’ lips and his tongue licking along after it afterward, like it's soothing away the bite. 

 

It’s possibly the best thing that Stiles has ever felt. Even if their audience is old, rotten tomatoes, broken down boxes, and a swarm (or two) of house flies.  
  
Stiles can’t exactly complain.


End file.
